Charlie Huston - The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

It was an accident.

Does that go without saying?

Does it matter?

Does it matter that he didn't actually take a gun from his pocket and shoot them in the face? Does it matter that they were all close friends? Does it matter that they had a standing Friday night date at the Palm in the Beverly Hills Hotel from years back, from well before my mom took off, from before Chev and me were even born? Does it matter that three of them drove drunk back up the Canyon every week, year after year, always in L.L.'s latest Mercedes, always, even in the rain, with the top down? Does it matter that, despite L.L.'s blood alcohol level, the inquest showed that the true blame for the head-on collision lay with the driver who'd been coming down Laurel Canyon, screaming around corners on the wrong side of the road? Does it matter that L.L. was acquitted of vehicular manslaughter? Does it matter that L.L. did his utmost to adopt Chev, and that, when he couldn't fight the obvious objections, he lent every bit of financial support he could to Chev and his foster family?

No, it fucking doesn't.

Especially if you're Chev.

It might have mattered. It might all have made a big difference.

If L.L. could have kept his mouth shut and never gotten shitfaced one night and, in a classic bit of L.L. theater, decided it was time we knew the true face of God, and revealed to us that he should never have been driving that night. After years of lies.

Still, it might not have mattered, at nearly twenty years of age by then, Chev might have had enough perspective to see why L.L. had lied, and he might have had a big huggy moment with his crazy father figure.

Might have happened.

If L.L. hadn't also revealed that he was having an affair with Chev's mom and that, at the moment of the accident, Chev's dad had been passed out in the jumpseat, and her mouth had been in L.L.'s lap.

See, as was often the case with L.L., it wasn't so much the fucked up shit he did, as the fact that he had to talk about the fucked up shit he did.

So I understand Chev getting pissed at me for having L.L.'s money in my pocket. Cuz we're not supposed to take his money. Ever. For anything. It was an oath we swore. Nineteen, Chev dropped out of college because he didn't want anything to do with the trust L.L. had set up for him; didn't want his money, and didn't want the education L.L. had told him his mom and dad would want him to have. Didn't want anything to do with anything L.L. touched, said, or thought. And I joined him. Skipped out on UCLA and enrolled at LACC. Having kind of figured out by then that if push came to shove, I'd be better off with Chev in my corner than with L.L. My rare moment of wisdom, recognizing that blood is not in fact thicker than water.

That oath may have kind of been broken by not stuffing L.L.'s money down the garbage disposal the minute Dot showed it to me. But I was too busy being a dick to her to be bothered with that.

Crap.

So I thought about that kind of stuff, the kind of stuff where your dad is kind of responsible for the deaths of your best friend's parents, while I stood next to the payphone at the gas station on the corner of La Brea and Melrose waiting for Po Sin to come and pick me up.

Again, crap.

– Motherfucker!

– So is this covered by workmen's comp?

– Motherfucker!

– I mean, if I get beat to crap by the competition, are my medical expenses taken care of? Missed wages? All that shit?

Po Sin drove one-handed, hammering his fist against the roof of the van.

– Mother! Fucker!

He pulled the van into the lot of a two-story strip mall, put it in park, got out and walked into a liquor store stationed between a nail salon and a Pi-lates studio, just under an auto insurance office. I watched him through the glass as he walked to the snack rack and started grabbing things, his lips ceaselessly moving.

Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!

He came out a moment later, got in the van, dropped a sack full of junk food between our seats, ripped open a bag of puffy Cheetos, put it in his lap and started shoving them in his mouth as we pulled back onto Santa Monica Boulevard.

– Moferfuther!

Orange crumbs sprayed the inside of the windshield.

– Mofufer!

I poked a finger in the sack of chips and beef sticks and snack cakes.

– Feeling a little anxious, Po Sin?

He wiped orange dust from his finger onto his pants.

– Fuck you, Web. And, yes, I am. I am a stress eater, OK. When I am stressed I lose composure and self-control and I eat compulsively. That's what happens. You've seen me, right? You see how fucking fat I am, right? You think this shit just happens? It doesn't. I don't have a fucking thyroid problem here, I eat too much and I eat junk food. And I eat more when stressed. And I'm stressed right now. OK? OK? OK?

I leaned away from the crumbs and the spittle filling the air between us.

– Yeah, OK, I get it. You're stressed. You got a right to be. I understand. Hey I'm stressed, too. Which, you know, I think makes a lot of sense in this scenario. Seeing as I was the one who got his face beaten in by your goddamn nephew. Oh, and by the way, I couldn't help but notice that the van he and his friends took off in had been recently vandalized in the same shade of yellow paint that Gabe had under his fingernails this morning. Not that I think the two things are related or anything. Not that I think I've landed in the middle of some kind of dead-body-cleanup range war or anything like that.

He hammered the roof again.

– Fucking Morton! Fucking guild!

– Yes, the guild, interesting that you should mention that. So happens that Bang brought that up while we were chatting. I must confess that I was at something of a loss when the topic came about. Somewhat in the dark, as it were. Perhaps you might fucking enlighten my ass.

He jerked the van to a stop at a red light and turned to me.

– His name is Dingbang, not Bang. It was his grandfather's name. Ding-bang, not Bang.

I folded my arms and put my feet on the dash.

– As long as he doesn't beat me up anymore, he can call himself whatever he wants.

Po Sin snapped his fingers.

– Feet, feet.

– Yes, they are, right there at the bottoms of my legs.

– Off the dash.

I shook my head.

– Uh-uh. Consider it getting my ass kicked for the job tax.

He put more Cheetos in his mouth.

The light changed and we moved forward and I looked at the road ahead.

– Hey hey. Hey where are we going?

– Sherman Oaks.

I took my feet off the dash and pointed at the road.

– But why are we going this way?

– Because it's fastest. Why do you care?

– No, Highland to the 101 is faster.

– No it's not. Not where we're headed.

– Here, turn here!

He kept going straight.

– Fuck, Po Sin, you needed to turn there.

He crumpled the empty Cheetos bag and dropped it in the grocery sack.

– Chill out, Web, this is the way to go. What's your fucking problem?

– Nothing. I just think my way is faster.

He pulled a tube of Pringles from the sack.

– Well you're wrong. Laurel Canyon is the way to go.

I didn't say anything, just put another mark down on the tally sheet, one more point scored by God in our ongoing game of Who's the Bigger Dick.

And we twisted up through the canyon of my childhood, passing the curve, the decisive landmark in Chev's life, me fingering the hundred-dollar bills in my pocket.

Casa Vega is dark as hell.

I'm only guessing about that, mind you, but I'm pretty certain that combination of blackness, dimly illuminated by red glass-filtered candlelight, is the precise effect that would really go in Hades.